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It was in the middle of their journey throughout Offen Mountain Range, when Fern fell sick. So badly and worrying that they had to stop at a nearby lodge, which fortunately happens to be there, and had her bedridden for days.
During those times, the remaining two split their chores in half: Frieren looking after Fern while Stark goes out looking for ingredients and supplies, or vice versa. As time passes, it was unwordly decided that Frieren spends more time with Fern in the lodging while Stark roams the surrounding area.
However, there were times where Frieren needs to get out too, whether it’s to sightsee, study Sein’s notes and concoct the medicine, or doing whatever she wants, whoever knows exactly. And when that time comes, Stark would be the one keeping Fern company.
Like now, for example.
It is evening already. The glow from the setting sun through the window lits the room up with orange hue. Frieren is out on a walk, she had said so. Stark just got back from the forest, now sitting on the chair beside the bed. And Fern was sleeping soundly. The red-haired boy watches as his companion breathes heavily in her sleep.
Stark isn’t one to get sick easily, he had kinda forgotten the feeling, but he can imagine how uncomfortable it must be. Fern’s face was painted with blush red from the heat and the skin under looks paler than usual. She moves weakly, clearly not having a good sleep, as her breath shortens and her brows furrow. Stark notices that. He thought, is there anything he could do to ease her pain?
Then, he remembered Frieren’s habit—or, you could say, Fern’s habit too—of holding hands when sick. It is said to give emotional support. Though Fern felt embarrassed about that, and Stark guessed that it’s mostly because of his presence. But now, Frieren is nowhere and Fern is starting to mutter in her sleep. Well, there is nothing wrong with trying.
So he clasped her hand in his. It is abnormally warm, hot even. Stark wondered how high her fever must be. There is no sign of rejection, so he figured it’s okay like this. He sits in silence as he watches her brows relaxing, and she stopped muttering, and breaths more calmly. He felt a grip on his hand, Fern held his hand back. Strong, soft, and smaller than his. The burning feeling started to creep inside him too.
For a while they stayed like that. Only the sound of faint heavy breaths and the wind blowing outside can be heard. Stark doesn’t move, afraid he’d wake her up. So instead, he examined her. Even when sick like this, Fern still exudes such a calm aura. Her breathing doesn’t look as heavy as before. Her brows stopped furrowing, though her face still shows sickness. Her hair is fully loose, not tied in the usual half-up she always does. Her eyes are shut tightly, and move under the eyelids ever so slightly. Her cheeks are red. Her lips part a bit, as a way to let air out. Her hand—
Suddenly, Stark can feel the hand he’s holding twitches, and watches as the pair of purple eyes in front of him shots open. His shoulders jumped in surprise, as a response.
“Stark-sama?” Her voice was much weaker, but he can still hear it clearly.
“Hey,” startled that she’s awake, that one word was the only thing Stark automatically slips out of his mouth. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. It’s been three days,” she answered. Still laying down, her eyes didn’t meet Stark’s gaze. Instead, she was looking at their locked hands. “You were holding my hand?”
“Oh, uh,” now Stark is even more disoriented, not expecting that question. “You were having trouble sleeping. I remembered Frieren would hold your hand like this whenever you do.”
Fern hummed. Silence sets in, the air hangs awkwardly. But their grip are still resting comfortably in the other's.
“It’s an embarrassing habit, isn’t it?” Fern breaks the silence.
“No,” Stark immediately shakes his head. “I think it is pretty reassuring.”
Fern now finally looks at him.
“I rarely get sick, you know. Even during my time with Master, I don’t think I ever get sick, except for wounds. So I never experienced any treatment like this.” Stark looks at their hands still clasped together, and wriggles it lightly. “It gives you the feeling of comfort. When you are sick, you would want to feel someone being there and caring for you, wouldn’t you? Like giving you support to get through your pains.”
Fern looks at their hands too, and her mouth breaks into a little smile. “I guess you’re right.”.
“Oh, and I’m sorry I held your hand without permission,” Stark continued, his tone worrying. His hand which was holding Fern’s shifted a bit, but Fern grips it tightly.
“No, it’s okay.” She smiled at him, before her gaze fell back to their hands. She wriggles it too. “I don’t hate it. Your hand is big and warm, kind of reminds me of Master Heiter’s hands,” her eyes softened. Somehow the gaze sends butterflies flying in Stark’s stomach, causing much of a ruckus, contrary to how soft her gaze was.
“Frieren-sama’s hands are much smaller, you know,” Fern grins.
Hearing that, Stark broke into giggles. “If she heard that, wouldn’t she get upset?”
“I suppose so.”
The silence that follows was not uncomfortable. All of their focus are on their intertwined hands, Fern had started playing with it. Stark can feel all his nerves leaving the centre head and is now assembling at his palm and fingertips, every touch and friction leaves him electrified. Yet, he feels calm. All his senses are relaxed. Like his whole body’s breathing the same way Fern’s hand moves on his skin. A delicate, smaller hand yet strong and sturdy. Dragging across his rough bandaged hands gracefully. They stayed like that for a while, Stark didn’t bother to count the passing time, because it feels comforting and warm. Abnormally warm.
Just when he thought he could probably hold her hand through the whole night, the room’s door opened and Frieren walked in, hands full of what seemed to be herbs and other odd-looking objects. She seemed like she intended to hide it, but it was just too much to be hidden behind her small figure.
At that sight, both Stark and Fern let out a sigh.
“You must be hoarding again, Frieren-sama.
“Frieren, please think about our luggage capacity this time.”
Frieren grins guiltily. “There were just too much interesting things…”
“Still, hold back a little bit.”
“I have! I didn’t pick up that much this time. I held myself back,” she raises her chin proudly. Fern frowned deeply and Stark braces himself. “Oh, hey, look, you guys are holding hands!” Frieren’s quick to change the topic.
“Frieren-sama…”
“Alright, dinner’s on me. I’ll cook.” She raises her hands, surrendering, and drags herself onto the kitchen. Before disappearing from sight, Frieren glances back at Stark, smirking. “You could do my portion of chores now, too.”
Stark’s cheeks explode in red, and Fern pouts at Frieren’s disappearing back. Now, they are back alone, but the atmosphere has shifted.
“Well, I wouldn’t hate it if you’re the one holding my hand next time, though,” Fern voiced, without looking at him. Stark noticed her cheeks became even redder reaching her ear, and he guessed it’s not because of the fever. Ignoring the amount of butterflies filling up his stomach, he thought to himself, cute.
He jogs their hands a little. The burning sensation is still there. And Stark doesn’t know if this is caused by the fever or whatever other reason there is. “I’d be happy to.”
Fern turns to look at him, pretty purple orbs filled with earnesty. “I’ll offer to hold your hand too when you get sick, though you are strong like that.”
“Then, when the time comes, I’ll take on that offer gladly.” Stark lets out a laugh, releasing the butterflies inside. Fern follows. It was a comforting afternoon, with Frieren's hum and sizzling sound of something being cooked in the distance, red and purple gazes meeting each other softly, and two hands intertwined sharing an abnormally warm sensation that makes its way inside both hearts.
Holding her hand was the right thing to do, after all.